Heard Street loomed over a sweeping emerald lawn that was dotted with crab apple trees. It was an ostentatious structure, carved out of stone with columns and floor-to-ceiling windows. The Spanish-tiled roof glowed ginger beneath the sun.
Easter’s body felt condemned by the time she climbed down off of that buggy. Her knees popped and creaked as she walked around to the side of the house and scaled the steps. When she caught sight of her reflection in the shiny glass pane of the window, she didn’t recognize the woman looking back at her. Her hair was a mess and her clothes were disheveled. Who in the world would hire someone who looked like they’d walked across the state? Easter quickly did the best she could with her hair, tucked her blouse tight behind the waistband of her skirt, and then raised the bronze knocker and allowed it to fall. A few moments later a dark, generous-sized woman opened the door. She winced when she saw Easter standing there—as if the very sight of her caused her pain.
“Yes?”
Fatigue swooped down on Easter and even though her eyes were wide open, she felt herself begin to dream.
“Are you lost, gal?”
Easter swayed, then raised the newspaper and declared, “I’m here about the job.”
The woman considered her. “You got fever,” she ventured, taking a cautious step back and raising a cupped hand over her nose.
“No, I been walking most of the day. I guess I’m just worn out.”
The woman eyed her. “You from ’round here?”
“No ma’am, I’m from Waycross.”
The woman’s eyes bulged. “You walk all the way from Waycross!”
Easter laughed, turned, and pointed in the direction she’d come from. “No ma’am, just from …” She trailed off; the image of Rain’s dewy eyes and sweet face swam in her vision and Easter felt her heart break apart again. She swallowed, changed direction, and said, “The job still available?”
Olivia Comolli was olive-colored and wore her golden tresses piled in a loose bun on top of her head.
“Easter Bartlett?”
“Yes ma’am,” Easter replied when the woman called her name for the third time.
“Unique name. Easter.” The woman seemed to enjoy the name against her tongue.
“Yes ma’am.”
Olivia led Easter into an immense room filled with granite podiums that held marble busts of significant-looking men. The walls were covered in fabric the color of blood and embossed with golden leaves. Oil paintings propped on brass easels depicted everything from a simple vase filled with weeping flowers to bird dogs and their grim-eyed owners.
After Olivia interviewed Easter, she leaned back and considered her for a long moment before she said, “You speak different from the other Negro women I employ here. You have education, yes?”
“Yes ma’am, I do.”
“Well,” Olivia said, her voice ringing with excitement, “we have just lost our Negro school teacher and I think you would be the perfect replacement.”
The Negro part of Elberton was called Sweet City and Easter arrived with some high school, learning the knowledge she’d obtained from her beloved books, and a hand-written letter of introduction from one of the most respected women in Elberton.
“Ask for Mrs. Abigail at this address,” Olivia had said as she scribbled the address down on a piece of linen stationery, “she’ll rent you a room.” Olivia’s hand stopped moving and she looked up at Easter. Her eyes rolled over her as if seeing her for the first time. “You do have money, don’t you?”
“Yes ma’am.”
A look of relief spread across Olivia’s face. “Good.” She handed Easter the paper. “It’s about an hour down the road.”
Easter started toward Sweet City beneath a relentless sun. Five minutes into her journey she knew she wouldn’t make it and so stepped off the road and found a cool space beneath a tree. She spread her nightgown over the grass and used the suitcase as a pillow and in no time was fast asleep. When she woke, the loons were crooning.
The rooming house catered to Negroes but was owned by whites. The tenants were housed Oreo-cookie style—young Negro women on the top floor, the white landlord and his wife in the middle, and elderly Negro men on the first floor. This living arrangement concerned the whites in Elberton and they shared their concerns with the owners. Niggers on the first floor … The first floor is your first line of defense and you done gone and assigned the enemy to guard your front door!
Easter wondered too, but when she met the men, it was immediately clear that any threat either of them ever presented had been beat out of them, poured, blended, and baked into humble pie decades earlier. The only contest they still possessed was for the affections of the owners and even that they had to share with the family dog.
Easter’s room was cozy and newly wallpapered, with a bay window. There was a small writing desk, an even smaller closet, and a full-sized bed with squeaky springs. She had her books, her space, and time to breathe, feel, think, and write. Who knew contentment had been hiding in a place called Sweet City?
The school was a one-room shack that sat a few yards away from the Mission Springs AME Church. The air inside the school was hot, sticky, and heavy with the scent of chalk and old books. The minister instructed her that she would be teaching children ranging in age from six to seventeen.
As the children filed in Easter carefully picked over their faces, and was quick to pinpoint the troublemakers, the slackers, the enthusiasts, and the meek. She offered a welcoming smile, moved to pull the door shut, and almost collided head-on with a latecomer whose face was as angelic as a cherub.
“’Scuse me, ma’am,” he said as he scurried around her.
She watched him move toward a seat in the last row and decided that he was at least eighteen if he was a day. Eighteen seemed right because of his gait and the confidence he wore tight around his waist like a belt belonging to a man twice his age. He settled himself into the chair, leaned back, folded his thin, muscular arms across his chest, and smirked at her.
He smirked at her and all four walls of that room collapsed. He smirked and the earth yawned and all but the two of them slipped down its grainy throat. Easter felt her mouth go dry and she reached for the water glass and brought it carefully to her lips. As she drank Easter wondered what in the world was wrong with her, because she was sure she’d left that thirst miles behind her, somewhere along the banks of the Savannah River. Regaining her composure, she set the glass back down on the desk and began the morning roll call.
“John Appleby?”
“Here.”
“April Botwin?”
“Here.”
Easter moved slowly down the list of names, aware of the cherub’s eyes boring into her. She crossed and uncrossed her legs, and felt her tongue begin to wither behind her teeth. By the time she reached his name, her voice had dropped to a hoarse whisper and it tumbled out in a gale of dust.
“Getty
